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(Continue)
In
fact, I have never been to a "night club" anywhere in the world.
What spectacle is more tragically idiotic than some naïve Americas celebrating
New Year's Eve? Donning paper caps on their heads and pretending to be
merry? All of the time whirring away with noisy clappers in a frenzied
attempt to forestall Death- at the precise moment when the fleetingness
of Time is more markedly severe than ever. If they could only divine my
thoughts, when I regard such antics- simply a parade of capering skeletons!
Sometime ago I recalled a visit to a town somewhere in the midlands of
my native heath. The years have since come and gone.
At
that time I used to stay in a downtown hotel. Outside my window, on the
opposite side of the street, a balcony was clearly visible from which
a young woman would emerge at frequent intervals. Her youthful suitor
(also a "teenager", or so it seemed to me) kept a close watch
below. I could see them gesturing to one another, arranging a rendezvous
and so forth. Once she fluttered a tiny scrap of paper held to a small
weight. He nimbly caught it in mid-air, read it, and then nodded assent.
She must have been quite young, I thought. But what a magnificent sight
she was to behold! With abundant breasts and dark eyes that seemed to
fathom the air around her. It was a superlative show- this wordless courtship!
The play amused me for several days. Then, shortly afterwards, I left.
Now, after many years I have once more returned to the same place. When
I checked in at the hotel, the former incident leapt form my memory and
so I asked to be given the same room. Fortunately, it was available. Once
more I posted myself at the window assuming that the players were still
alive and living there. Not very early in the morning, a woman appeared
on the balcony eyeing the street up and down. I recognized her swelling
breasts (as in her youth).
Her hair was now
touched with grey. Her eyes, I perceived, were still large and deep set,
but now there was a vague and tired look in them. She looked insistently
at the man on the pavement who stood in a dejected attitude holding a
briefcase in his hand. Then, she waved goodbye to him. He glanced back
and automatically returned her wave. She then withdrew into the interior,
closing the shutters of the balcony behind her without having uttered
a word. This occurred on a Friday, followed by a Saturday and then it
was Sunday.
From sheer
routine I dressed; then, logically, I resumed my stand at the window to
watch the front door of the house and the balcony. As I watched, the woman
came out and waited on the pavement. Seconds later, the man appeared with
a boy. I rushed downstairs and into the street, striding as closely as
possible by the trio without slackening my pace. No need to eavesdrop
on their conversation. Obviously, they chatted about the weather, the
high cost of living, or what time was Mass about to begin. She was carrying
a prayer book and a small rosary was wound round her fingers. The boy's
hair was neatly brushed and combed and he was wearing patent leather shoes.
His Papa wore his Sunday suit- the same chap who had sent those cryptic
love missives long ago. Her ample legs were more widely spaced now and
her gait was a trifle wobbly. His hair had begun to streak and there was
a hint of paunch around his middle. A loud peal of church bells sounded
from the Cathedral square. Then, the man suddenly remembered he was escorting
a woman; so, he took charge of her arm. The ten year old boy walked on
indifferently ahead of them without caring a "hoot" for his
parents! Seldom have I seen the human being go straighter towards Death
in such a mechanical and orderly trajectory.
Everything
had evaporated! The passionate gestures of the hands and the furtive billet
doux, the early morning glances, her eyes which followed his from the
balcony above, the mawkish young suitor with the faraway look in his eyes-
all that glorious pantomime had dissolved into mediocrity. The period
of ferment had gradually eased to a calm assimilation of identities. I
could foresee their end. It was like a pendulum swaying in slow, balanced
rhythm. The circle narrowing into narrower circles. The timepiece of Death
encompassing from explosive love to the forebearance of sleep. The reproductive
cycle of Life and the all-defining units of disassociation and association
slowly advancing towards a central hub that inevitably draws and annihilates
the human being. I cannot restrain myself from observing- observing how
humanity advances step-by-step to its doom. That insidious beldam who
is lurking under my skin. She will stop the beating of my heart. I do
not know if the muscles will suddenly contract or dilate rendering impassable
the flow of blood and oxygen to the brain and to the body. At that very
instant there will occur a final reflexive flicker in the retina which
will transmit a message to the brain cells. The cells will then signal
a message to the hand. The fingers will then meekly grasp the pen and
scratch a line onto a sheet of paper, producing a new, creative line,
a hitherto unthought of linear form in a final desperate attempt to sketch
Death.
 Since
childhood, Death has not been a phantom of Fear and Sorrow for me or of
self-pity. Quite the contrary; it follows a succession of law and order,
cause and effect. An occurrence that demands the most profound meditation,
question and answer. When I first gazed upon a dead body, the sight of
Death mystified me. Even today it still does. I sense as if I were being
drawn into a circle of doubts. I query the permanence of existence and
its cycle of reproduction or any semblance of daily life. Death is a destructive
force! She is a nihilistic symbol who is winking her eye at me and chiding
my sensitivity, laughing mockingly at my efforts to excel in my task,
as if she were taunting me with those questions; Why? What for? I was
a frail child. Death stood by me like a ministering angel. I have always
trusted her.
Her strength
has always helped me. Our long communion has shown me what she really
means to me. She is a bodiless spirit who will come to liberate me from
all earthly ties. Freedom! If I were religiously inclined, every night
I would compose a psalm or an ode to Death to soothe her. Therefore, as
I draw, I sketch Death in her full circumference. Nothing I can perceive
is permanent. If I had liked to paint in brushwork, I would have employed
the pigments of colors and essentially disintegrated them before imitating
anything that is or appears to be alive. The corporeal decline of the
substance and form of the spirit I try to sustain with the pencilled line.
Occasionally, but seldom, I feel satisfied, though somewhat astounded
at having seized the final bite of Death. Many years ago, (when I was
still bound to reality) on one of my rounds at the General Hospital, (I
went there in search of themes for my drawings) I sat by the bedside of
a dying man and began to sketch him. He was totally unaware of my presence.
He could not have sensed my impersonation. I wore a medical gown. I looked
like a doctor on one of his rounds of like an intern who was studying
the clinical chart and taking down some notes of the patient's symptoms.
Absorbed as I was in the progress of my work, I bent over to capture the
expression on his face. The countenance had sharpened. His features had
become disjointed.
The rictus
of Death had overtaken him by surprise. An eerie peace had descended on
the unfortunate man. As I finished pencilling my sketch, I saw that the
features had numbed. The skin had yellowed and the eyes were set into
a fixed and vacant stare. The man had succumbed while he was being sketched.
Those who have seen the drawing (intrinsically, it is a "sketch")
have appreciated what my hand seized at the moment of Death. I have no
fears of Death; she waits for me; I wait for her. We await one another.
If physiological death accosts me, or if I should perish in an accident,
I do not feel at all frightened. My loyal friend is standing closely at
my side. She is the fair companion of my tenderest woes. Her guilt is
my guilt. For it is through her hollow orbs that I perceive everything
and judge by sight. When the last heartbeat stops pounding ( a warning
note has frequently rung), my good lady will bend down to kiss me. The
truth, I lament, is my zeal for self portraiture- an impish fervor to
tease my lady and woo her. How I wish that at that moment I could hold
a looking glass in my hand, and compose myself in a certain stance so
that I might steal from her the echo of my own secret. (Originally published
in Progreso, Yucatan, December 30, 1973.)
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